Skip to main content

No, You Are Alone Here

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #182, hosted this week by Shay, whose poetry is a festival unto itself. That chill you feel creeping around your shoulders probably has nothing to do with the images she chose. They're definitely not waiting for you to offer a poem...


All the thoughts are curated; vitrines locked and watched;
We sprinkle dust along the floorboards, poison to rat and roach.
Spiders are swept by the women we bring in early.
We choose them for their solitary...strength.
Witches? We provide the brooms but not the titles.
Here are your dark robes, avoid the stun of the lights.
Gather your cobwebs, sister. Here is your shoe box for bodies.
No. You are alone among the shadows, here. Go on.
All the thoughts are labeled; unbroken glass won't breathe. 

Hello and welcome to another weekend poetry blog. My marigolds are blooming this week!!!! This is the second set of seeds that I put out after the first set just fizzled. Celebrating small victories this autumn.  Hope your writing takes off with the determination of a weed in the back of the bed this season! :) 

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. FireblossomOctober 16, 2021 at 8:55 AM

    Oh, this is suh-weet, Chrissa. "The stun of the lights" oh yes. Never enter the storage cooler without an axe!

    ReplyDelete
  2. indybevOctober 16, 2021 at 9:15 AM

    Your marigolds are blooming ... and your pen is spiraling good stuff!!

    ReplyDelete
  3. Carrie Van HornOctober 16, 2021 at 11:02 AM

    Love this Chrissa!! The mysterious creepy and yet lovely feel of the whole poem is absolutely wonderful! Love those blooming marigolds too!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Linda Lee LybergOctober 16, 2021 at 12:08 PM

    What a wonderful poem!

    ReplyDelete
  5. Sherry Blue SkyOctober 16, 2021 at 5:38 PM

    "Gather your cobwebs, sister." I love it.

    ReplyDelete
  6. ms_liliOctober 16, 2021 at 7:45 PM

    Sounds like Crone School. I love it!

    ReplyDelete
  7. Gillena CoxOctober 16, 2021 at 10:36 PM

    "We provide the brooms but not the titles." This line made e pause and read again 😊

    much❤love

    ReplyDelete
  8. Marion HortonOctober 17, 2021 at 3:37 AM

    Who's for a spell of cleaning? Love the poem and the vibrant marigold.

    ReplyDelete
  9. hedgewitchOctober 17, 2021 at 8:45 AM

    Perfectly creepy, but in a scalpel-like, erudite way which lifts the tongue in cheek tone into something just a bit darker than usual, full of a light-fingered menace and gleams of something we might not want to look at too closely. Thanks for adding the word 'vitrine' to my vocabulary, as well as scaring me with shoeboxes.

    ReplyDelete
  10. qbitOctober 17, 2021 at 11:00 AM

    This is so. so good. Agreed with Hedge, it is scalpel clean, and the creepyness here is what? Us? The work we ask of so many people who remain hidden to us? Who are the ghouls? How necessary are the witches?

    ReplyDelete
  11. JimOctober 17, 2021 at 2:58 PM

    I like "the box." I save boxes, I envision a cigar box, a Whitman Sampler box, or a large shoe box for use here. :)

    ReplyDelete
  12. Susie ClevengerOctober 18, 2021 at 10:29 AM

    "unbroken glass won't breath" Goodness I love that line. Shoot, I could copy and paste every line. This is awesome poetry!

    ReplyDelete
  13. grapelingOctober 18, 2021 at 8:07 PM

    I too admire that closing line - a clean suture to stitch up the whole ~

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Treacle Season

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 ,  hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge  dreaming an angel who became a superhero.   She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall.   The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s)   I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city...   Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion:  there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it.  -- Chrissa
16 comments
Read more

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in the margins of
15 comments
Read more

Revelations

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #169 : It takes time for the quest to settle into your calves, to work through your soles and up to your shoulders, spreading through nerve and vessel until  you can't go home because you've already left something of yourself there. You can't be in two places at once. You remember vacations but now you think your family's plans probably resembled some supervillain's monologue:  we'll do this and then take them here. It'll be fun. When do you leave the house on time? Who's time? There's a collar of dead bushes at the lawn in front of the gas station, a tiny, grassy patch of the suburbs beyond, ruins of landscaping, bright, dead. Two years ago feels like twenty, feels loud, a power wash of wind through the window; roaring down the dry sewers that funnel a/c through the lawns and backwards, carrying dreams dry and sharp. At this speed, everything cuts as it passes. Appendix 1:  Chrissa is Full of Stuff and Nonsense Let'
13 comments
Read more